


END.

by 1000trillionpercent



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Forbidden Love, Frottage, Groping, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Jealousy, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000trillionpercent/pseuds/1000trillionpercent
Summary: Timothée looks like he’s critical seconds away from biting his bottom lip clean off his face, and Armie is not skilled enough in first aid to deal withthat. His face is gorgeous shades of burning reds and pinks, but it’s doing more harm than good. Armie can’t find a single word he’s looking to say.





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****ALL*** CONTENT WARNINGS FOR FUTURE CHAPTERS WILL BE IN THIS SECTION, THEY ARE LEFT UNTAGGED TO PREVENT SPOLING OF PLOT DEVELOPMENTS.**

“I know. I’d… I’d be a fucking idiot not to have known by now, T.” Armie sighs and catches Timothée’s eyes as the younger male shuffles closer. The look on his face is heartbreaking, so hopeful, so full of love. Armie wants nothing more than to take him into his arms and kiss him breathless. Whisper promises that they can work everything out. Thank him for being so open and finally putting two years of silent want into words. 

 

Armie hates himself for having to have this talk before he was truly ready for it. He's horrible under pressure, unprepared, doing something that's against all his inner desires. 

 

He knows severing this at the root is the only solution that has a chance of ending positively.  Even if it hurts Timothée, himself, their friendship. He knows Timothée is just too loving, too understanding, too sweet. Armie would only ruin that over time. There's safety for both of them in distance. “I suppose I always just… hoped we’d both grow out of it. Or you’d lose interest.” Timothée now looks like a kicked puppy and is quickly putting distance between them and curling in on himself.

 

“I… It’s- I just…” Armie huffs in frustration. “It’s there. I feel it too. But it’s all so… new to me. You don’t know what it's like- you don't- you’ve found yourself already. And me, I’m, I don’t know. I never got the teenage years of experimentation. It wasn’t as… okay as it is for theatre kids in special artsy schools. Finding all this out about me now, when I'm already so old, _I have kids Timmy,_ it’s just… It’s not something I can ever pursue, y’know? It’s easier to... not acknowledge. Ignore. I’m sorry. But, you deserve someone that can do this with you. I can’t drop my life for you, regardless if I want to. I… I’m sorry.”

 

The silence between them is deafening. 

 

Timothée doesn’t look at Armie. His face, for once in their entire friendship, is unreadable. His expression is lifeless. Armie is equally intimidated and upset that he caused this. His eyes are focused on the floor, slowly scanning left to right at nothing. Armie can't tell if he's deep in thought or just... blank. 

 

They sit like that for several minutes. Armie opens his mouth to speak multiple times, gets out little more than a sigh or an incoherent noise. Timothée stays exactly the same. Doesn't seem to be aware of Armie's struggle to communicate. Doesn't react to anything, _doesn't move._

 

The instinct to bolt from Timothée's apartment swells in Armie's chest. Would that make everything worse? 

 

Best to start with removing himself from this immediate situation, 

 

“I’ll just… I think I'm gonna go to bed. I'm sorry.”

 

Timothée still doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and Armie gets up from his place on the couch. He leaves the half-eaten pizza slice and his phone on the coffee table and quietly makes his way to his bedroom as quickly as possible.

 

It takes several uncomfortable hours of staring blankly at the ceiling before he succumbs to sleep.

 

Timothée doesn’t sleep at all, spends the night sitting in place, deep in thought.

 


	2. Wouldn't

When Armie wakes up his senses are delighted with the gentle sunlight from his bedroom window and the prominent smell of food. He comes to himself with a smile, stretching and sitting up. Ready to greet the day and Timothée.

 

_Timothée._

 

Specifics are a blur, but last night resurfaces in Armie’s memory, and he’s immediately overcome with guilt.

 

Timothée’s cold, forced indifference. The silence. If anything, he should be the one waking the other up with breakfast. Apprehension floods Armie, and he paces his room for several minutes before hearing a gentle knock on his bedroom door.

 

Armie panics, unable to find an out or anything, he’s so utterly unprepared and unsure if he can face Timothée at the moment. The door opens slowly, and Timothée seems surprised to see Armie awake, and the genuine smile that’s on the younger’s face has a mixture of confusion and adoration filling Armie’s heart.

 

“Good morning!” He beams, all gums and teeth, “Didn’t expect you to be fully alive this early.” He’s in Armie’s black and white sweater, his hand raising to scratch the well-groomed mass of ringlets. “I, uh, made breakfast. So… come get some?” It's held out like a question, Armie doesn't need to look up to know he's currently worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He wants to feign an equal level of joy, tell Timothée he'll be right there, but...

 

Timothée stays in the doorway for a few seconds, neither of them looking at each other before he steps out of the room and closes the door with a soft click.

 

_Could have gone worse?_

 

Armie makes a beeline for the shower and spends at least ten minutes just under the water thinking. It’s like… Like last night hadn’t happened? Was it a dream? Timothée seems so… unaffected, especially compared to the last time they spoke. Is he supposed to pretend nothing happened as well? Are they going to talk about this? Armie scrubs his hands over his face.

 

Delaying the inevitable isn’t going to make it any easier.

 

When he steps out of his room, fresh clothes and damp hair, Timothée’s hand around the corner is all that can be seen from his door, but the whisper-soft voice is clear as day.

 

“I made you a plate. It's on the coffee table, if that's okay?” The smile is evident in his voice even now, Armie’s certain last night had to be a dream. “Getting us drinks now, dig in!”

 

Armie feels his heart ache a little as he turns the corner to the living room, “You didn’t have to do this, I feel like I should have.” He stares at his plate and pushes his eggs around with the provided fork.

 

Timothée chuckles, “I wanted to.” There’s a clink of glass and Timothée appears with two mugs and sets one down in front of Armie. “I might not be as good at making coffee as you though.”

 

“Nobody is,” Armie announces proudly, setting his fork down on his plate to grab the mug’s handle. He takes a swig and tried to steel his initial reaction. There has to be at least half a cup of sugar in this. It still somehow tastes bitter in an entirely foreign way. For someone that is nearly in coffee shops for a living, a simple cup of coffee with a little cream and sugar should be much of a disaster.

 

Timothée looks at Armie over his cup of tea. “I fucked it up didn’t I?” He sounds so disappointed Armie immediately feels guilty.

 

“It’s good,” Armie reassures, taking another large gulp.

 

It looks like Timothée is suppressing a pout, fingers curling around Armie’s forearm. “Seriously, don’t drink this for my sake. You can go make a new one.”

 

Armie’s already painstakingly swallowed seventy-five percent of the mug. And Timothée sighs when he tugs Armie’s arm and the older male is intent on finishing it. His throat burns at ingesting the scalding liquid in such high volumes and so quickly, but he’s already hurt Timothée’s feelings so much the past twenty-four hours he can’t bring himself to dump out a drink that was made for him.

 

The food was better. Exponentially better, but that isn’t surprising. Armie always laments having to go without Timmy's cooking for an extended period of time, especially given that at home he’s usually the chef. Timmy nibbles on a bagel for himself, and Armie has happily cleaned his place in a matter of minutes.

 

They sit in relative silence for about twenty minutes, just watching tv and enjoying each other’s presence. Timothée’s head ends up on Armie’s shoulder at some point, as it always has when they’re absorbed in a movie or looking at something together. Armie’s left hand rests on his thigh, but his ring and pinkie finger are extended, lightly touching Timothée’s thigh.

 

He feels relaxed. At peace. Almost like he could sleep but also not wanting to miss a moment of this.

 

There's a moment where he feels like he's dozing off while fully awake, and Timothée's voice brings him back to alertness. 

 

“So,” Timothée says softly, pressing his nose to Armie’s shoulder. “About yesterday.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

 

Armie’s heart sinks. So last night _did_ happen. “Timmy, I-”

 

“I put you in a weird situation.” Timothée interjects, lacing his fingers together in his lap and looking at his knees, “That puts a lot of pressure on you. And it… I don't want things to be weird between us. Especially because of me and how ridiculous I am. So I just. Wanted to say I'm sorry. And I get it if things need to be different now, or you need some space from me or whatever.”

 

“What?” Armie frowns and turns to look at Timmy, takes in the red along his eyes and on the tip of his nose. “What? No.”

 

Timothée doesn't look up at him, and Armie swallows.

 

“I… Are you forgetting the part of this where I have feelings for you too?” His voice is so soft, and he raises a hand to lift Timmy's chin so their eyes can meet. “Because I do.”

 

Armie can see the tears in Timmy's eyes, can hear the soft sniffles and… is he shaking? Timothée takes a deep breath and looks around the room before meeting Armie's eyes again.

 

“You really do?”

 

Armie's brain feels like it's fogging over. The swirl of thoughts, emotions, anxiety, everything is fading to white noise. “Of course.”

 

Timothée leans forward, and Armie feels his heart rate pick up. Timothée leans over him, their faces inches apart but bodies ultimately not touching. “I…” He bites his lip as his fingertips toy with the collar of Armie's shirt. All armie can feel is the pressure of Timothee's fingertip on his skin. For a second, it's the only thing in the room. “I want to be with you.”

 

Armie feels like he's swimming in bliss. A small voice in the back of his head telling him he needs to shut this down just as he did before, say this can't happen, even get up from the couch and leave until the temptation fades. But Armie could barely hear it, let alone pay enough attention to it to heed its warning. His resolve is shot. His logic's shot. His need to be the bigger person in this is shot. All his brain can focus on is Timmy.

 

“I want to be with you too.” it's said as a whisper. Armie's eyes are fixated on Timothée's lips the entire time.

 

Timothée leans in, their lips just barely touching. “Yeah?” His voice is soft and teasing and sexy and Armie knows he's ruined. Knows Timothée owns him down to his core. Armie nods, lips just barely parted in anticipation. If he listens closely, he can hear his own heart beating aggressive against his ribcage, but it's like his body doesn't feel it. “Then stay with me,” Timothée says softly, closing the distance between them.

 

Armie hadn't realized how much he missed Timothée's lips until this moment. He pulls Timothée down on top of him, and the voice of reason in his head is long gone. They trade sloppy kisses for what feels like hours to Armie, and he feels progressively more hazy as time passes.

 

They're a mass of limbs and tongues and all desperation. He's not sure which of them tangled their legs together, or started rolling their hips, but Armie looks up at Timmy through half-lidded eyes as the younger shudders and gasps Armie's name as he comes apart. Armie isn't even sure when or if he finished, just recalls the sensation of Timothée's slim fingers in his hair and the whisper of “Perfect” against his collarbone before the fog and grogginess dragged him back into sleep so soon after waking up.

 


	3. Hesitate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** \- they are drinking/intoxicated  
> \- There's a moment of being pressured/guilt-tripped into kissing

Armie wakes back up feeling groggy and like the world around him is muffled. He takes forever to get back to reality, and he realizes he's on the couch, alone, and it's noon. When did he get out of bed? How did he sleep for so long? The house looks untouched from last night, and Armie can't recall anything after the talk with Timmy and going back to his room.

 

He looks at the coffee table, did Timmy clean up their uneaten food? Where is Timmy? The coffee table is cleared, and he can't for the life of himself remember where his phone is. He tears the living room and his bedroom apart to no avail and in the process learned Timothée isn't home.

 

He goes to grab a drink from the kitchen (cleaned spotless, a fresh set of clean dishes beside the sink, did Timmy make breakfast?) and sees the light blue post-it on the end of the counter.

 

_Went to grab some groceries, I'll be back by 1:30. Call if you need me sleepyhead -T_

 

Armie smiles softly and toys with the edge of the note. Maybe last night went over better than he remembers, Timothée seems to be in good spirits.

 

Armie decides not to play with his luck and extracts a piece of pizza from the fridge and flops down on the couch to watch a movie.

 

\------

 

The doorknob rattles a bit before it opens, and Timothée is stumbling in with arms full of bags. He makes a beeline to the kitchen and empties his load before going back to the front door and picking up another armful of groceries.

 

“Need help?” Armie calls from the living room, idly watching the other dump bags onto the counter.

 

“Oh, so you are alive!” Timothée giggles, kicking the door closed behind him as he’s holding the final bag. “I thought you were in a coma.”

 

Armie chuckles, “Felt like it.” he scratches the back of his head before he remembers, “Can you call my phone? I can’t find it anywhere.”

 

Timothée hums, “Didn’t you take it in your room last night?” He’s pulling his phone out and cradling it one hand, delicate fingers typing his passcode.

 

“I’ve looked fucking _everywhere_.”

 

Timothée presses a final button, and Armie hears the connecting rings from Timothée’s phone on speaker, and both of them are silent as they wait for the beginning soft, strong notes of Mystery of Love. Nothing. Armie groans.

 

“Lost _and_ dead. Great.”

 

“You can use mine in the meantime.” Timothée offers with a smile, setting the rose gold phone on the dining table. “We’ve got a whole four days to find it. It’s probably in your blankets anyways.”

 

Armie huffs under the teasing tone from Timothée. “That was one time.”

 

“And you panicked about it for three hours.”

 

That earns him an eye roll.

 

“So I was thinking.” Timothée starts, picking his phone back up. He’s rattling off options of plans for the day, but Armie can’t help but focus on the tug at his heart. Timothée’s going to all this trouble for him, even after everything that’s happened between them. He feels like he doesn’t deserve him. “--And then I bought a fuckton of apples because they were on sale, so we can make, like, turnovers or something, sound good?”

 

Armie nods numbly, fighting between the swirl of adoration and guilt that’s filled him.

 

“Alright then get your shoes on!”

 

\------

 

They make it back home in the dead of night, lightly intoxicated and full of giggles. Timothée’s leaning on Armie's shoulder for balance as he unlocks the door and they tumble through and take refuge in the living room. They lay together, a mass of limbs and incoherent words, laughter, before Timothée sits up and pushes a hand through his hair.

 

“Our dessert,” He pouted, sad green eyes looking at Armie who’s upper half is lazily leaned against the armrest.

 

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to work an oven, lightweight.”

 

Timothée’s pout deepens, and he clumsily shuffles and moves until he’s leaning over Armie with one hand propping himself up, the other raised as his index finger jabs Armie’s sternum.

 

“Listen here, motherfucker.” He sounds like a sleepy toddler and Armie bursts into laughter, spurred on by Timothée’s smile. Timothée sinks down, forehead resting on Armie’s pec before devolving into giggles as well.

 

\------

 

The bottle of wine on top of their earlier drinks was a bad idea.

 

A horrible idea.

 

Armie should have known better.

 

But now he doesn’t have it in himself to care.

 

Timmy is straddling one of Armie’s thighs, but he’s considerably less fucked up than Armie is. Timothée chews his bottom lip and looks at Armie with dilated pupils and a hungry expression. “Kiss me,” It’s a whisper Armie almost doesn’t catch.

 

Armie’s arms feel heavy as he lifts them to rest on Timothée's thighs and rub circles with his thumbs, “We talked about this.”

 

“Just once. I’ve… I’ve wanted this for years Armie.” Timothée’s voice drops, and it’s going right to Armie’s cock. “We probably won’t even remember it tomorrow. We don’t have to talk about it ever again.”

 

Armie hisses as Timothée’s leg moves, petite thigh just barely brushing against his very interested dick. Timmy leans down, and his curls tickle Armie cheek as he puts little under an inch of space between their lips.

 

“For me?”

 

One kiss becomes several. Morphs into tongues battling for dominance, into hips rolling together and seeking out friction. He’s relatively confident in the haze of arousal he gave Tim a hickey. Timothée’s hand slips into his tracksuit pants and Armie doesn’t even protest, just bucks into the exploring hand. Timothée babbles incoherent praise, words teetering on worship and thanks as his hand wraps around Armie’s cock. Sweatpants, swim trunks, and the brief close encounters and views in Crema just don’t do it justice. Timothée hikes up Armie’s shirt, lets his free hand rest there and take in the labored breathing.

 

The elastic of Armie’s pants and boxers dig into Timmy's upper arm, but it doesn’t deter his rhythm. He swallows Armie's gasps and grunts in kisses; tries to take every second of this to memory. It’s exponentially better than last night, and he knows still this won’t be enough to satiate his needs.

 

He buries his face in Armie’s neck when Armie cums, lets Armie thrust into his fist until he’s oversensitive, pulls his hand back and licks the cum off his knuckles. Armie pulls him into a kiss by his shirt, uses his other hand to direct Timothée to grind against his hip.

 

It takes a pathetically little amount of time for Timothée to fall apart with a whimper, dull nails digging into Armie’s shoulder and biting down on the crook of Armie’s neck to suppress any noises. He rides out the aftershocks before he’s kissing Armie again, lazily and languid until both of them are too tired to move.   



	4. To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** \- sexual acts done to a person who is asleep (somnophilia) / non-consentual sexual interaction  
> \- discussion/doubts of if their last interaction was consentual  
> \- guilt tripping/gaslighting involving the above discussion

Armie wakes up in a haze of lust and pleasure. He feels wet heat engulf his cock and bucks into it. When he hears a soft gag, reality hits him like a bucket of ice-water. He sits up in a flash and looks down, taking in Timothée with a perplexed and slightly frustrated look on his face. He slowly pulls off Armie’s cock, snickers when Armie inhales shakily.

 

“Good morning,” His voice is thick with arousal and so, so sweet. His lips barely brush against the head of Armie’s dick as he speaks and the heat of his breath makes Armie’s cock twitch.

 

“Timothée what the _fuck_ ,” Armie says, voice louder and higher than anticipated, pushing Timothée away with his palm pressed firmly to Timothée’s forehead and sitting up fully, shoving himself back into his sweatpants.

 

Timothée yelps and shouts in protests as he’s shoved away. “That fucking hurt, Armie!”

 

“Then consider us even for that fucking wake-up call. What the fuck was that?”

 

Timothée looks equally angry and hurt. “You’re really going to pretend like you’re being taken advantage of after what we did last night?”

 

“Last night I was drunk, and you fucking talked me into it!” Armie yells, “I’ve been trying to be good, you’re the one that keeps. Fucking. Pushing. Even when I say no.”

 

There’s pure murder just barely hidden in those green orbs. “Fine.” He gets up swiftly and makes his way to the front door, yanking a jacket off the nearby hook. “I’ll stop making everything so fucking _difficult_ for you.”

 

The door slams behind him, and Armie winces.

 

\------

 

Armie spends several hours awake, not thinking, not moving, just existing. Should he still be here when Timothée comes back? Would being gone make it worse? Is Timothée going to stay somewhere else until Armie’s flight back to LA in three days? Should he get a hotel room?

 

Around eleven he decides sitting in the remnants of the bad energy isn’t exactly good for him and he sets out to go to the park.

 

\------

 

Armie arrives back to Timothée’s apartment around seven. He has a bag of Dunkin Donuts as a peace offering, and he’s disappointed to find the unit is still empty. He sighs and flops down on the couch, fishes Timothée’s phone out from between the cushions when it jabs his thigh. Fear washes over him when everything registers. Timothée’s been gone for nearly twelve hours with no means of contact to anyone.

 

He tries to calm himself, attempts to clear his head. Eventually, he unlocks Timmy’s phone and calls Nick in hopes to relax a bit. He sends a text to Liz, checking up on her and the kids and expressing excitement about coming back home soon. By eight thirty, he decides to go out to dinner.

 

\------

 

It’s ten, and there’s still no sign of Timothée. Armie pulls up twitter on Timothée’s phone (through safari because the weirdo doesn’t have the app installed for some reason), bypasses the wall of recent searches, and sees if maybe some fans have seen him. Nothing. Armie hates Timothée’s ability to blend into crowds, especially when he doesn’t know when they’ll talk next and that their last interaction was so horrible.

 

He curls up on the couch and stares blankly at the television, willing himself awake in hopes Timothée will be home soon.

 

\------

 

Timothée reappeared around 3 am, stumbling into the apartment and pulling a taller male in by his hand. Neither of them seemed to notice Armie curled up on the couch, and he made no effort to draw attention to himself. So this is what he’s been up to all day?

 

Timothée and the stranger are speaking to either other in, presumably, French at a near silent level. The guy hoists Timothée up mid-sentence and presses him to the wall. Timothée's legs wrap around his waist, and they're completely absorbed in messy kisses. Armie can see the slight shine of tongues in the dimly lit room, and when they pull apart for air, the taller male bites and tugs on Timothée's lower lip, earning him a giggle.

 

They whisper to each other, and he's carrying Timothée across the apartment, bumping into walls and furniture along the way as they traverse the rooms blind between kisses, each of them giving breathless laughs when the guy trips over one of Armie's carelessly discarded boots.

 

They make it to what he can guess is Armie's bedroom door, and the sound of kissing fully picks up, Armie's ears can pick out the breathy whimpers and gasps from Timothée, but just as he hears the doorknob begin to turn Timothée’s voice is audible, louder than their previous volume and sounding almost concerned.

 

The other, deeper voice says something and laughs, and Timothée giggles along, and then there are more shuffling and kisses, and Armie hears the door to what is definitely Timothée’s bedroom open and close.

 

Armie can't stop thinking about it.

 

His dick is particularly interested in hearing the barely muffled moans and the creak of Timothée’s bed, but Armie is so caught between hurt and jealousy it isn't like he could enjoy this at all.

 

But yet he obsessively wonders about each detail. _Does he have Timothée on his back, fucking into him deep and hard, kissing Timothée between moans? Or does he have Timothée from behind, admiring the arch of his back and the full view of his tiny frame? Does he tangle his hand in Timothée's hair and pull, force his neck to extend all the way and admire how much Timothée loves the pain of it? Would he wrap his hand around Timothée's delicate throat and fuck into him harder, listen to the strained inhales and the choked moans?_

 

Armie shakes the thought out of his head and tries to tune it out, tries to will himself to sleep.

 

They go two more rounds before the noise dies down.

 

Armie feels sick to his stomach.

 

\------

 

The next morning Armie can barely hear the sounds of them once again in the shower, and his brain conjures what may be on the other side of the door.

 

_Timothée bent over the sink, his face pressed to the cool glass of the mirror as he being fucked incoherent... His back pressed against the shower wall, full weight pinned against the tile and held up and open to be used, steam surrounding them, Timothée's body glistening under the water spray..._

 

 _He_ steps out of the bathroom first, and Armie immediately hates him. Wet, dark curly hair, strong frame, beautiful angular face. _And he's French._ Armie contemplates his chances of getting away with murder.

 

The stranger seems to notice Armie staring and says a simple _B_ _onjour_ before walking to the kitchen and grabbing himself a drink. Walking around in just a towel like he owns the place. Armie's jealousy is at critical levels.

 

The bathroom door opens slowly, and Timothée is coming out, turning the opposite way the stranger did and walking into his room without looking out to the living area.

 

The guy waits for Timothée to be out of earshot before he's making his way to the dining table and leaning over it, stray droplets of water falling from his bare shoulders and chest onto the table.

 

“We didn't wake you, did we?” His accent is thick, and Armie hates him even more, wants to punch that smug smile off his face. “He was so concerned about disturbing you, but it was still difficult to keep him quiet.”

 

Armie tries to laugh, but all that's offered is a nasal exhale with no emotion to his face. “Don't worry about me.” He says sharply, but the stranger seems completely unfazed.

 

Timothée emerges fully dressed from his room, and the stranger’s look at him is so warm it makes Armie's stomach churn. This is the first time he's gotten a real look at Timothée, and he sees that the mark he made has been covered with a larger, darker mark from this man. Armie feels like sinking into the floor. Timothée notices Armie, then his friend, and says something quick and hushed in French.

 

 _He_ looks to Armie and smirks, and it doesn't take knowing to langue to pick up on the smug tone. Timothée throws the pair of pants he was holding at the older males face and stalks into the kitchen, saying something else a bit louder.

 

His friend sighs, tugs the towel off and slides into the sweatpants. Armie doesn't look. Doesn't feel the hit of pride in his chest that his dick is bigger than this guy's.

 

Timothée reemerges a few seconds later with his tea and an apple, placing the fruit in _his_ hand and saying something quietly but Armie can sense the pointed nature to his tone. The guy shrugs, takes a few bites and then offers to fruit back. Timothée picks a seed out with his nail and sets it down on the dining table before taking a bite for himself, and Armie watches as they make eye contact when Timothée licks the juice off his lower lip.

 

Armie feels horrible for experiencing jealousy. Knows Timothée can never truly belong to him, that he should be encouraging this, but every time _he_ opens his mouth, and he can see the way Timothée’s eye-fucking _him_ it just makes Armie want to fight this guy.

 

\------

 

They say goodbye with a series of heated kisses, _his_ hand squeezing Timothée’s ass and Armie has to pretend not to hear the delighted giggle from Timothée. _He_ makes eye contact with Armie over Timothée’s shoulder, and _the fucker has the nerve to smirk._ Armie finally feels like he can breathe again when the door is closed behind him.

 

“I don’t like him.” Armie says before he even realizes he’s talking, “He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat.”

 

“At least he actually looks at me,” Timothée says lowly, quickly. His meets Armie’s eyes like its a challenge.

 

Armie sighs and stands, crossing the living area until he and Timothée are standing inches apart. Timothée stands his ground, all reserved and poised. It feels weird for Armie to be seeing so much of this Timothée that's far from his public submissive demeanor. “I can’t give you what you want, and I know you don’t like heari-”

 

“You can. You already did once.” More than once, actually. “You can talk about being pushed but.” Timothée sighs, his brows furrow. “It's not fucking pushing or pressuring when we both know you want this.”

 

Armie gives a defeated sigh, “But it doesn’t matter if I do want this because I can’t.”

 

Timothée snakes his hand under Armie’s shirt. “You can. You just don’t want to. I’m willing to keep a secret.”

 

Armie takes a step back, “But that’s not fair to her. I can’t. We’ve talked about this and. She’s willing to ignore and allow so much, Timothée. But this isn’t one of those things.”

 

Timothée looks at Armie in silence for several seconds before he laughs to himself, that same unreadable expression on his face.

 

“Alright then fine, you’ve made your decision.”

 

He pushes past Armie and goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind himself.

 

Armie decides to be the one to spend the entire day out of the apartment this time.   
  



	5. Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** \- Mentions of weed smoking  
> \- ???  
> \- Vomit mention

Armie gets back home at eight the next morning. If Timothée is awake, he doesn’t interact.  Armiepacks up his bags and cleans up the room, prepping himself for the morning flight tomorrow.  His logical half begs him to get a hotel room for the night, but the part of him that’s so, so far gone for Timothée refuses to leave with their last interaction being so sour.  He empties his pockets on the nightstand, grumbles when he fishes out his cheap new replacement phone to hold him over until his actual one resurfaces and goes to the kitchen.  

 

Timothée pales significantly when he notices Armie in the kitchen.  There are about five apricot pits on the kitchen counter, and Timothée was slicing into a sixth fruit before Armie walked in.  

 

“Hungry?” Armie tries to be playful, but it feels mostly unsure, flat.  Timothée takes a few seconds before he’s awkwardly chuckling, setting his paring knife on the counter.  

 

Timothée bites into the fruit and taps his nails on the counter for the second, lost in thought, “I’m, I was making smoothies, want one?” He stuttered out, sweet smile on his lips.  

 

Armie agrees with ample thanks, and Timothée goes to work cutting up another three of the fruit.  

 

-\-----

 

They’ve made up by lunch, and Armie couldn’t be more overjoyed.  But he notices the sadness in Timothée’s eyes whenever tomorrow, Liz, the kids, any of it is mentioned.  Armie does his best to accommodate this.  Tries to just eat the food Timothée made for them and focus on the present. 

 

-\-----

 

By the time sunset approaches, Armie knows he can’t sleep tonight.  It barely takes any coaxing from Timothée before they've sat together on the balcony of the apartment trading a joint between their lips. 

 

They talk endlessly, about their schedules, about the future, about nothing and everything at the same time.  Timothée seems to be growing sadder by the moment.  Armie doesn’t address it, tries not to draw attention to it.  When Timothée catches eye contact, and Armie sees the tears welling up, threatening to spill over and drench his face, he feels awful.  He sees one drip land on the hand Timothée has rested in his lap. 

 

“It’s not going to be the same without you here.” He hiccups, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

 

-\-----

 

They solemnly vowed to spend the night awake together, make up for their lost time being collective assholes. By ten, Timothée is handing Armie a glass of wine (in the ‘Worlds Okayest Best Friend’ mug Armie had gifted him for his twentieth birthday, no less).  Armie whines that _he’ s not a wine guy_, to which Timothée quips back to  _have_ _some culture for once_, and from that moment on, things get progressively fuzzy around the edges until the only thing Armie can recall from that night is the salty aftertaste to the peach wine. 

 

-\-----

 

 _"Oh my god,_ I can feel you in my fucking stomach,” Timothée groans, digging his heels into the back of Armie's thighs, “Don’t stop.”

 

Armie’s body feels hot, unbearably hot, and he couldn’t speak if he tried.  All he can focus on is Timothée, on the tight heat of his body, on the look of pure adoration in his eyes, on each moan and gasp that’s spurring him on to thrust harder and deeper.  Timothée becomes incoherent at a remarkably quick pace, babbling praise and declarations of love between pants for air. 

 

When he comes the first time, Armie bites down on Timothée’s shoulder hard enough that it reddens and begins bruising as soon as he lets go.  Timothée’s dull nails dig into Armie’s side when they fall apart together for Armie’s second orgasm.  Timothée whimpers and mewls as Armie unflinchingly tries to continue pounding into him, and Timothée gently pushes off until he pulls out. 

 

“Shit’s way too strong.” He chuckles under his breath.  He wraps a hand around Armie’s cock and pressing their lips together, swallowing Armie’s groans and growls as the third orgasm paints Timothée’s stomach. 

 

-\-----

 

Timothée struggles, but leads a re-dressed Armie back to the spare bedroom and tucks him in.  It’s two in the morning.  He swipes the phone from the bedside table when the notification tune plays, and deposits it into his pocket before tiptoeing out of the room. 

 

He tries to contain the look of absolute disdain that Armie is entirely packed for tomorrow. 

 

He sets Armie’s new phone on the dining table and spends a few minutes acing the kitchen, checking the time on his own phone, waiting patiently to hear any signs of life from the bedroom. 

 

Tomorrow, or rather today, is a  _very important_  day. 

 

Armie wakes up three hours later and struggles to make it to the bathroom before he vomits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave your theories on where the fuck this fic is going in the comments, as I'm sure by now there's enough Occurrences sprinkled around (if I'm any good at foreshadowing correctly) that some eyebrows may be raised


	6. While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** \- Vomit mention

"Good morning, lightweight," Timothée chirps, leaning his weight against the bathroom doorway. 

  
  
Armie shudders and attempts to swallow down the taste of his own bile.  He can't speak yet.  Everything hurts.  There's a hangover, and then there's this.  He feels more than a little woosey, his head is throbbing, and his lungs crave oxygen despite his panting.  Timothée takes a second to catch on to the severity, crosses the room to place his hand on Armie's back and rub circles as Armie continues to retch.

  
  
The (mostly liquid) contents of Armie's stomach pass in due time, and he's sat on the bathroom floor for a few seconds to collect himself. Timothée cleans up after him, hands him a small glass of water, and sits with him.

  
  
"I didn't think we drank that much last night," He says, concern flooding his tone. 

  
  
"I don't know, doesn't feel like a hangover," Armie pants, rubbing his palms on his thighs to distract himself from a new wave of nausea. 

  
  
"Do you think it's food poisoning?"

  
  
"Wouldn't you have gotten sick too?"  Armie turns to look at Timothée, pain and confusion coating his features. 

  
  
Timothée's eyes widen, and he looks down quickly, fingers toying with the hem of his sweatpants.  "I…  I don't know.  You had some pizza right before you left for bed.  Maybe that was it."

  
  
Armie looks at Timmy, then turns his head to stare at the wall, " I don't remember anything from last night."

  
  
Timothée frowns, "Nothing? " he tugs at the edge of his sweater. 

  
  
"Nothing past being on the balcony."

  
  
"You didn't seem too out of it to me. Do you have a history of wine blackouts I wasn't aware of? Was whiskey a safer bet?"

  
  
Armie laughs, then immediately groans in pain as the movement upsets his stomach.  "Maybe.  What time is it anyway?"

  
  
"Almost six."

  
  
Armie groans and wipes a hand over his face.  "My flight's at ten."

  
  
"I really don't think you should go in this condition,"  Timothée says softly, pressing the back of his hand to Armie's forehead. "Unless you want to vomit on a TSA agent."

  
  
Armie nods weakly, Pats his chest and clears his throat.  "Can you get me my phone?"

  
  
Timothée gets up and makes his way to the kitchen to snag the device from the island counter and goes straight back to the bathroom. 

  
  
Amazingly, the first call isn't to her.  He's on the phone with customer service, and it's a losing battle caught between the breathlessness and confusion of his voice.  He ends the call in a polite but disappointed tone and sets his phone on his lap to think for a second. 

  
  
Timothée stands and pulls the bathroom sink mirror back, looking over the contents of his medicine cabinet before he's pulling out a small bottle of ibuprofen and handing it to Armie and refilling his water glass halfway.  Armie takes then gratefully, tries to pretend he wasn't admiring the curve of Timothée's ass when the other had his back turned. 

  
  
"Did you get rescheduled?"  He asks softly, his knee nudging Armie's outer thigh when he settles back on the floor.

  
  
Armie sighs. "Yeah. There wasn't an opening until Tuesday."

  
  
Timothée feels his heartbeat pick up.

  
  
"But, don't worry, I'll get a hotel room, I've already been here way too long, and I don't want to make you feel like you can't have… other people over."

  
  
There's no stopping the laugh that leaves him. "And miss out on, like, a whole half week with you? Fuck that, you're staying here."

  
  
Armie smiles, then looks back down at his phone. "I should update Liz on this."

  
  
Timothée fights back the urge to roll his eyes, doesn't protest when Armie hands off the phone to him mid-call.  Enthusiastically promises her he'll take good care of her husband and have him in tip-top shape for his return home.

  
  
\- \-----

  
  
The day goes off without a hitch.  They spend the morning on the couch together.  Timothée cooks breakfast and borderline feeds Armie.  The afternoon is slow and peaceful.  Armie passes out in the middle of a movie, and Timothée quietly extracts himself from the couch. 

 

He pads silently to the front door and closes it behind him.  Armie hibernates like a bear, so he knows he should be fine for at least a few hours.

  
\- \-----

  
  
Armie wakes up to the smell of food and goes through the post-nap panic if not knowing what time it is and not remembering who you are.

  
  
He blearily makes his way to the kitchen and is greeted by Timothée hunched over and intensely focused on the pan of vegetables in front of him.  He startles at the sound of Armie pulling a stool away from the island and whips around quickly in confusion before a big smile spreads across his face. 

  
  
"Hello!  How was the nap? " Timothée turns his burner down and leans over the island. 

  
  
"I'm still alive,"  Armie sighs,"Barely."

 

Timothée rolls his eyes and hands Armie a glass of water. 


	7. You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** \- Intense gore, disfigurement, blood  
> \- Vomit warning   
> \- Somnophilia

It’s been a long time since he’s been in Timothée’s room. Standing at the doorway or snooping around the thoroughly stocked bookshelf while the younger gets something on their way out to do something, sure. Rarely, but it happens.

 

Laying in Timothée’s bed? That never happens.

 

He takes in the softness of the blankets, the faint scent of Timothée’s cologne and shampoo intermixed on the bedding below him, all spice and flowery and perfect. When he feels the mattress dip to his side, then once again at either side of his hips, Armie snaps out of his trance at looks at Timothée above him. He’s shirtless, clad in only high-waisted black jeans and a pair of white rubber gloves that go up to his elbows.

 

It’s only then that Armie realizes he can’t move. His wrists and ankles are bound taut, with absolutely no wiggle room, and when he tries to writhe under the restraint, Timothée just chuckles. Timothée leans over him, pulls a rolled cloth from the headboard and places it next to the both of them. When it unfurls, Armie sees the allotment of medical equipment. When Timothée’s hand goes to a scalpel, Armie feels his heart thrumming against his chest with all the strength in his body. He’s frozen in terror and can’t even bring himself to speak.

 

There’s a wicked smile on Timothée’s face, and a gloved hand lowers to lovingly stroke Armie’s cheek and shushes him quietly. He sees Timothée twirling the scalpel in his other hand. “Alouette, gentille alouette,” He sings quietly, the soothing hand moving down to rest on Armie’s chest. “Alouette, je te plumerai.” Timothée traces the dull edge of the blade along Armie's face. There’s a look in his eyes that’s equally lovestruck and something sp, so much darker. “Je te plumerai la tête.” It’s whispered like a secret between them; his voice is so much lower, tone darker than Armie has ever seen. It’s terrifying.

 

“Je te plumerai le bec.” Armie feels more that sees the scalpel go into his throat, its lodged in place, and all hopes of screaming for help are gone as all he can manage is a gurgle. He tastes blood, and the tool moves in his throat as he tries to breathe. He hums the mealody softly as his fingers dance over the rest of the devices. Timothée picks up a smaller, skinnier scalpel, and tests the weight of it in his hands. Armie is trying, failing, to say something, to wiggle free, to reason with Timothée.

 

“Alouette, je te plumerai les yeux,” His vision is suddenly gone in one eye. His face feels wet, there’s a searing pain stretched across the right side of his skull. Timothée’s scalpel and gloves come back soaked in blood, and he swaps the blade to his other hand and reaches down, the hand coming back with… Armie feels bile rising up his throat and before he can even react, it’s spilling past his lips and landing down his neck, on his chest. Timothée is stunned, frozen in place for a few seconds before he laughs loud, high, and drops the severed eyeball onto Armie’s stomach.

 

The next one, “Je te plumerai le cou.” Armie feels every millimeter as Timothée takes a firm grip of the scalpel and twists it, then drags it down the expanse of Armie’s neck, only stopping when the blade rests embedded in the dip between Armie’s collarbones. ‘Je te plumerai les ailes’ comes with the scalpel baring down on Armie’s left bicep, cutting the muscle down to bone with no issue. Armie barley gurgles, just succumbs to the awful pain. Timothée’s hands are shaking as he pants out “Je te plumerai les pattes.” as he carves apart Armie’s calves. Armie can see the prominent bulge in Timothée’s pants and it's making his throat dry.

 

The blade is planted hard in Armie’s lower abdomen, and when his blood pours from the wound and stains Timothée’s clothes, pools at his crotch, Timothée actually moans. Armie feels the searing heat filling his core as warm crimson sloshes out of him. Timothéee’s hips rock on his limp cock, and he’s trying his best to undo the button of his jeans with the blood-soaked gloves still on. Armie watches, hears the zipper pull down, and closes his eyes just before Timothée’s cock springs free.

 

Armie awakes with a start, dislodging a very flustered Timothée from his place cuddled up against his side. Timothée looks mortified, nearly completely pale for a split second, before it fades to concern at how distressed Armie is. Armie’s hands raise to his neck, relieved to find completely intact flesh. He looks down at himself and adjusts his brain to the sight of himself as alive, in one piece again. He hears a voice, but can’t bring himself to focus on it until Timothée’s hands are on either side of his head and force Armie to make eye contact. Timothée talks Armie down slowly, thumbs rubbing soothing lines on the hallows of Armie’s cheeks and pressing the occasional soft peck to Armie’s forehead. It continues well past Armie calming down completely, and Armie is far too drained to request it to stop, actually feels slightly disappointed when Timothée presses their foreheads together and just settles there.

 

“You gave me a heart attack.” Timothée jokes, linking his arms around the back of Armie’s neck.

 

Armie looks down, chews the inside of his cheek. Decides not to give any details about the dream.

 

He reluctantly lets himself be pulled by Timothée into the spare bedroom, nestles right up next to Timothée on the far-too-small bed.

 

“It’ll be just like Crema.” Timothée says softly, “Minus the ten hours of rehearsing our lines each night.” Armie can’t help but return the fond smile on Timothée’s lips.

 

Timothée presses a kiss to Armie’s forehead a final time before scooting himself lower, tucking his head under Armie’s chin. His hand rests idly on Armie’s lower stomach, and when Armie starts to drift off again, he isn’t completely certain, but he swears he could just barely feel it slide lower.

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Suffocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry my brain can only conjure one chapter's worth of content every month, i should really take that thing into the shop and get it checked, huh?
> 
> we're hitting homestretch with 2 chapters left on the horizon before completion. this chapter itself kinda stepped away from my outline, and i know for a fact I've already made significate mental changes from the first drafted outline i have for this ending so just..... strap in, if anyone is still even reading this, lol 
> 
> im also finishing this at 11 in the actual night and so the grammar isnt going to be great, not like its ever been from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALmost forgot the warnings whoo boy   
> **Warning:** \- there's so much fuckin somnophilia (kinda)  
> \- like?? nonconsensual?? touching?? in general??  
> \- basically if you don't like someone having sexual things done to them w/out consent but said person doing little to stop it, this chap isn't for u

  
  


Armie doesn’t sleep much that night; there are moments of drifting off, often interrupted by the tickle of curls against his face, his neck. Other moments are interrupted by Timothée’s… actions. He can’t keep track of the time, and puts all of his effort and focus into keeping his breathing even and still as Timothée’s hands roam his body. When Timothée’s cold fingers slide up under the hem of Armie’s shirt and touch skin, Armie tries to disguise his breath hitching as just coughing in his sleep. Timothée goes entirely still next to him for several seconds, and Armie is doing his absolute best to be as convincingly asleep as possible. 

 

In the back of his head, he hopes this is just a dream. 

 

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as Timothée's fingers dance on his skin. It’s only when Timothée’s hands go lower does Armie finally decides he should do  _ something _ . Timothée’s fingertips ghost gently up his thighs, and Armie feels the swell of heat in his core. When Timothée’s hand moves to cup his crotch, however, Armie feels his blood run cold. 

 

There are so many questions swarming in Armie’s head. Nausea fills his stomach, and he’s moving before his body and brain wholeheartedly agreed on it. He rolled onto his back, freeing himself from Timothée’s grip. He hears Timothée’s gasp, the whispered curse, and feels the other retreat slightly. 

 

There’s nothing for a long while, Timothée doesn’t press closer, doesn’t push boundaries, doesn’t say anything. He’s sure at one moment he hears the clicking of Timothée typing away on his phone. 

 

\------

 

Armie comes to through a fog of lust. His wrists sting, his body is moving without him doing anything, and he feels the slow drag of skin against his cock. There’s a frame, much smaller than his but overwhelmingly warm, draped over him. 

 

He opens his eyes when he hears the first moan. His senses are overcome with Timmy. Armie takes in the flushed face, the rolled-back eyes, lips parted just slightly, the curve of his neck, every gorgeous detail. He’s brought out of it by the pain in his hands, and he looks over to realize his left wrist is bound tightly to Timothée’s right, and Timothée is digging his nails into Armie’s hand with a force that can draw blood. Armie looks over and sees the same for his right arm, securely tethered to Timothée and wrapped taut to the bed frame to prevent any movement from him. 

 

Timothée arches his back, presses his torso harder to Armie’s stomach, and whimpers. Armie looks higher, notices the fist tangled in Timothée’s hair, follows up the toned arm until he sees  _ His _ face. They lock eyes and  _ He _ smirks, fucks into Timothée harder, and with each punishing thrust Timothée gasps out Armie’s name. He watches as Timothée’s lashes flutter, feels his body shaking above him. There’s a particularly loud keen as Timothée is pushed over the edge, and it breaks off into shaky panting. Armie can feel Timothée’s heartbeat against his skin.

 

\------

 

“-something for tonight.” 

 

Armie struggles to find reality as he’s pulled so suddenly from his dream space. His cock informs him that it’s quite upset to have been drawn away from the festivities, but Armie can hardly focus on that. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to Timothée’s voice. 

 

“No, You know what I need.”

 

He tries to settle down, to doze back off, but Timothée’s words keep pulling him out of his dozing. 

 

“I don’t have time.” He can hear the blatant annoyance in Timothée’s tone. 

 

“I know,” Timothée stops abruptly, Armie assumes he was cut off. “I know. I just fucking know he does. He just needed some....persuasion.” 

 

Armie’s curiosity is peaked. 

 

There’s a stretch of silence before Timothée huffs, “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? That was the first thing I handled.”

 

There’s a stretch of silence, and Timothée sighs, “Just- Will you- Are you going to help me out or what?” 

 

Another pause.    
  


“What do you want?” Apprehension floods his tone.

 

“Absolutely not.” His voice is stiff, authoritative. 

 

“What makes you think I’d even trust you with something like that?” 

 

Timothée is quiet for a long time, and Armie can hear him struggling to form words several times before a defeated sigh leaves him. Armie struggles not to visibly react when he feels the covers being pulled off of him and Timothée climbing on top of him. He focuses all his effort on his breathing when Timothée’s hands move to push his pants down. 

Armie feels the warmth of Timothée’s hand on his still semi-erect cock, and it twitches at the attention. There’s a flash of light Armie can just make out through his eyelids, and Timothée unceremoniously drops his dick and places the hand on Armie’s thigh. 

 

Armie can feel his heartbeat picking up significantly fast. 

 

There’s the sound of Timothée typing, and the younger male shifts and lays himself against Armie’s chest, head resting on Armie’s shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

 

“Happy now?” 

 

Armie can hear the voice on the other end of the line, hauntingly familiar but also muffled and difficult to accurately place. He’s sure he’s dreaming right now. 

 

“Sleeping.” Timothée raises a hand to toy with a few strands of Armie’s hair gently. He’s quiet for a moment as the voice speaks, “No, never really needed to.” 

 

Armie hears a laugh on the other end and then more talking he couldn’t discern.

 

“Are you serious?” 

 

Timothée sits up and shuffles back down, and without warning, there’s a wet heat enveloping his cock. There’s another flash, and the sensation is gone just as quickly as it arrived. Timothée flops back on the bed next to Armie. 

 

“So we have a deal?” 

 

Armie can no longer hear the voice. 

 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.” 

 

Armie’s not sure when, or how, but he finds his way back to sleep a few minutes later. 

  
  



	9. And

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember me? i am so sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** at this point there's no way to sugarcoat this is straight-up rape  
> also there is a heavy mention of vomit 
> 
>  
> 
> :^) having so many unfinished wips is driving me up a wall and leading me to burnout all at once, just fucking take this ill be so glad when it's over

The realization was a game of cat and mouse Armie is playing entirely by himself. Or, instead, the reality is the temporary pain of healing from a surgical procedure, and Armie is the insolent idiot that would rather his flesh rot him from his insides than go under the knife. 

 

There’s nothing strange going on. 

 

When he wakes, and Timothée is pacing the kitchen, passionately ranting to the phone clutched to his ear in a hushed tone, Armie doesn’t ask questions. Don’t allow his brain to even process the whispers. Tries to forget the name he hears being hissed. When Timothée looks up and notices Armie, then immediately swaps over to French, pulls on his best smile and mouths _‘Pauline, sorry’_ and excuses himself to the balcony, Armie decides not to focus on it. 

 

When his burner is on the kitchen table instead of where he’d meticulously placed it on the coffee table the night before (nestled between a coaster and a stray magazine), Armie heaves a sigh and tries to push it to the back of his mind. 

 

Acknowledgment of his surroundings isn’t some divine cure that wakes him from a slumber of ignorance. 

 

Awareness eats him alive like he’s having sulfuric acid poured over him. It's happening in front of his eyes, he’s watching his bones melt, and his flesh turn to sludge, it’s ungodly painful, but there isn’t much that can be done at this point. He’s already destined for the absolute worst. 

 

He stops his thought train as a rather malicious voice in the back of his head notifies him that this metaphor isn’t far from becoming a reality. 

 

Timothée steps back into the living room, takes in Armie standing still at the end of the highway with a head cocked to the side and the softest, sweetest inquiry if something is wrong. 

 

He makes an excuse of tiredness and gives a tight-lipped smile. 

 

\------

 

When Timothée puts a mug of tea in front of him, Armie feels the spread of cold from his spine to his toes. He doesn’t drink it, dumps small amounts at a time into a plant pot only when he’s certain Timothée isn’t paying attention.

 

This paranoia is getting out of hand. 

 

It’s just the lack of decent sleep. Nothing more. 

 

Time passes, and Armie is lulled into comfort. Timothée is nestled against his side but focused entirely on The Office playing on the television. Time passes, close to a half-hour, before Armie feels the hand on his thigh. His outward lack of emotion is pulled off so perfectly it may be the best acting of his career. Internally, he feels the cold sweat of anxiety building. 

 

It’s just paranoia. 

 

Timothée glances over to him occasionally but otherwise doesn’t say anything or move further. 

 

Ten minutes later, he’s convinced himself this is normal. It’s passive affection. Just Timothée expressing friendship. 

 

It is spoken exactly forty-six seconds too soon. 

 

Timothée turns to face him, and Armie can feel Timothée's eyes raking up and down his frame like it’s tangible. It takes everything in him not to visibly flinch when Timothée runs a hand through his hair, the softest smile playing at his lips. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Armie is reasonably sure it’s a rhetorical question. Timothée tips Armie’s head back and studies his eyes before chuckling to himself. Armie holds still and prays that this is a fucked-up joke. That any minute the curtain will be drawn back, and it’ll be revealed this is all a dream. That this is a skit on an elaborate prank show. Anything. 

 

Timothée crawls onto him, closing every millimeter of space between them and resting his forehead against Armie’s. After a beat, he connects their lips. Armie’s lack of reciprocity doesn’t phase Timothée at all as he licks into an impassive mouth. Armie feels hot shame and ice-cold panic battling for dominance along his skin. When Timothée’s hands move to his chest, Armie feels all the air leaves his lungs in one burst. Timothée seems entertained by this, and peppers kisses along Armie’s jawbone as he’s pulling up the hem of Armie’s shirt and exposing his torso. 

 

How long will it take to wake up from this nightmare? 

 

There’s a hand in his sweatpants, cold fingers fishing out his very uninterested cock and laying it out on full display between their bodies. Armie opens his mouth, tries to protest, and makes little more than a noise before Timothée’s angelic smile flashed across his vision, and his lips are caught in a kiss again. Timothée groans into his mouth, and he feels the line of his hard cock against his abdomen as Timothée rolls his hips. 

 

Armie’s stomach is in knots, and he feels acid creeping up his throat as Timothée wraps a hand around his cock and pumps slowly. Armie’s sound of protest is lost against Timothée's lips, and he finds himself too deep in shock, fear, disbelief, to do the logical thing and just push Timothée off of him. 

 

Timothée pulls back only to unfasten his pants and pull himself out of them, and lines his throbbing cock against Armie’s that’s barley shown any interest more since the beginning of this endeavor. He pumps them together, and it all happens so fast that Armie isn’t even confident it was real. He feels the tingle in the back of his throat, the saliva building in his mouth, and suddenly his chest is soaked in wet and heat. His other senses catch up, and the stench bombards his nose with an intensity that grows his nausea to twice its concentration. Timothée is frozen in place, clearly taking in the action as well, and both of them process the Armie just vomited between them at relatively the same time. Timothée swears, wipes his bile-coated hand and arm on an untainted part of his thigh. 

 

He seems lost, frozen in place, and unsure of what to do. He’s repeatedly swearing under his breath, and he’s stiff with discomfort as Armie's vomit seeps further into his clothes. It takes several seconds before he separated himself from Armie and stands up. His assesses both of them, the furrow in his brow deepening by the second before he huffs and walks off to the kitchen. Armie hears the tap running for a few seconds, it shuts off, and Timothée is in front of him again only to grab his phone and swipe away at the screen. Armie is frozen, numb, and Timothée is lazily wiping at the discolored sludge on his chest as he presses the phone to his ear and waits for his call to connect. 

 

 _“Louis, s'il te plait. Merci.”_ Timothée taps his foot impatiently, and after a few seconds, he’s all near yelling and arm gestures. 

 

“What the _fuck_ did you give me?” Accusation and blind fury are prevalent in his tone. Armie doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry. 

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“ _‘Qu'entends-tu par’_ He’s never puked all over the fucking living room before _d'idiot_ , what the fuck did you give me?” 

 

“Then why- th- A- Bon, alors, _pourquoi fait-elle ça?_  "Timothée shouts, pacing around the living room. "You really think I can take him to a hospital?”

 

“The _fuck_ could I even tell them?”

 

Timothée sighs, tries to speak several times and is seemingly cut off. 

 

“ _Je ne vais pas tomber pour ça tout seul._ ” He hisses.

 

“Viens par ici.” He huffs, pulling his phone away from his head and pressing a button. 

 

Timothée heaves a big sigh and scrubs his hands over his face, then looks over to Armie. He steps closer and hesitates for a moment before running a hand through Armie's hair. The look of disgust is evident on his face.

 

“I’ll get you cleaned up in a minute, just stay here.” He whispers, then makes his way to the bathroom. 

 

When he hears the door shut and the shower turns on, oxygen is allowed into Armie’s body once more. 

 

There’s one chance. 

 

Armie pulls off his soiled shirt, lazily uses it to wipe to vomit from his stomach and lap, and barley has the mental coherence to tuck himself back into his sweats. He grabs his phone from the table and throws a jacket over his shoulders, grabs his wallet, and leaves the apartment as swiftly and quietly as he can. 

 

Even in the dead of night, he’s still vigilant not to be recognized. Takes a taxi to the opposite side of town and gets a room at a seedy hotel, gives a fake name, and pays cash. The first thing he does upon locking the doors and checking the windows is climb into the shower. 

 

He’s entirely lost on what his next move needs to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000trillionpercent @ tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> pleas leave comments and yell at me on [tumblr](http://1000trillionpercent.tumblr.com/)
> 
> || [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/crankyplier/playlist/0bw90Nw71BNAyPsvDYM17c?si=N_vgBg16RfyAH9CXrQzd1Q) ||


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